


Divided

by JoMarch



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-28
Updated: 2014-03-28
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:15:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoMarch/pseuds/JoMarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"I'm hardly in a position to condemn a man for having an affair."  Life on Mars</i> post-ep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: Life on Mars, Inauguration: Over There.  
> Disclaimer: They're Aaron's. Except for Adira Lyman, who is mentioned here briefly and who belongs to Ryo and me.  
> Thanks: Ryo, as always. Plus Nikki's careful reading and inspired suggestions helped make writing fun again.

I didn't expect Josh to show up on my doorstep tonight. Having been involved with Josh for almost four months, I have learned that most weeknights are too busy to accommodate our desire for sleepovers. Having been his assistant for five years, I understand the exact nature of the emergency that I thought would keep him at the office all night.  
The Vice President of the United States resigned today, and a new one has to be selected and confirmed as quickly as possible. Candidates must be vetted, the political plusses and minuses have to be weighed, the Republican side of the aisle must be consulted but not kowtowed to. There is only one person I know who can manage all that before the press starts using words like "weak" and "indecisive."

This looks like a job for the Deputy Chief of Staff.

Honestly? I was surprised when Josh sent me home at 10 p.m. When he came over an hour later, I was stunned. Happy, but stunned. Josh, on the other hand, was -- well, it's difficult to describe Josh's mood. He was definitely passionate. But there was something else there. Some sort of undercurrent. There was none of our usual wordplay, none of the light, teasing tone we usually have together. From how tightly he held onto me, the intensity with which he stared at my face, this desperate quality I sensed in his kisses, I felt he was looking for comfort more than he was looking for pleasure.

Which is not to say that he left me unsatisfied. Far from it. He's had nearly four months to learn what I enjoy, and he did everything just right. And based on his reactions, I think he found the comfort he was seeking. So now, I'm in that sated, blissed out, exhausted state of being that follows several hours of intense lovemaking. In other words, my life is good.

Josh's life, it seems, still is not. If it were, he wouldn't have slid to the other end of the mattress and perched at the foot of the bed as soon as we were finished. Josh enjoys holding me after sex. He relishes the entire experience: whispered conversations, kisses that aren't necessarily meant to lead to another round of intercourse, running our hands over each other's body simply because we enjoy the warmth and the texture of one another's skin. Josh does not let go; he doesn't get as far away from me as he can manage without getting out of bed.

Except for tonight.

Tonight he's propped his back up against the foot of the bedpost -- to ease his back, he said, but he hardly looks relaxed, even sitting there with one pillow thrown over his lap and another stuffed between his back and the wooden bed frame. I can still see the pain that seems to have been etched into his face during the last twenty-four hours. His shoulders have this rounded quality they get whenever he's blaming himself for something that's entirely out of his control. His eyes are squeezed so tightly shut that there's a whole new set of worry lines at the corners.

One thing I have learned over the years: It does no good to prod him into telling you what's wrong. Try it and all you'll get are angry denials, followed by more silence. What you have to do in this situation is wait. Eventually, he'll make an oblique comment that indicates he's ready for some discussion.

"The world is falling apart."

And there it is.

Even with my heart aching for him, I have to smile. Josh never does anything by halves. If there's a cloud on the horizon, he'll find a way to turn it into a thunderstorm. Sometimes he needs to be reminded that not everything is as gloomy as he likes to believe.

"Maybe not the _whole_ world," I reply. To emphasize my point, I nudge his foot with my own.

He opens his eyes and stares at me for a moment. "We're barely four months into our second term, and already it's starting to fall apart. We didn't just win; we won in a landslide. We had a mandate. We were going to accomplish things. And now…" His voice trails off, as though he can't bring himself to complete the thought.

"And now we have a setback," I finish for him. "One which is not President Bartlet's fault. Or yours."

"I should have been paying closer attention. I shouldn't have needed a lawyer -- a Republican lawyer -- to point it out to me."

"Unless you were planning to go through the White House phone logs or read the gossip columns yourself, I don't see how you could have known."

He rolls his head back against the pillows again, as though the sense of failure is too much for him. "It's not the first time," he says. "When I was working for Hoynes, there were rumors about other women. There was some talk about what we'd do if any of it became public knowledge during the campaign."

And another piece of the puzzle that is Josh Lyman falls into place.

Josh can be ruthless when necessary. In five years, I've never met anyone who's his equal at playing dirty politics. But at the same time he's congratulating himself on a victory, you can see the toll it takes on his conscience. That isn't the person Noah and Adira Lyman raised their son to be, and he knows it. He can justify staying on the shady side of ethical if he's working for a noble cause. If the reason he's running a smear campaign is to cover up his candidate's indiscretions…

Josh's motive for leaving the prohibitive favorite in order to work for an obscure New England governor becomes stronger. Josh must have dreaded the kind of tactics he'd have to employ to keep Hoynes' behavior secret or to minimize its effect. In contrast, a presidential candidate who wasn't hiding anything from the voters must have seemed like a miracle.

No wonder getting President Bartlet elected became some sort of holy crusade for him.

Except that, according to that infamous Lyman hindsight, Josh thinks he screwed up by not preparing for this sort of scandal. I don't know what he thinks he should have done -- had someone keep tabs on Hoynes' movements for him, argued against keeping Hoynes on the ticket. None of those options seems very realistic. But because he's Josh, he somehow thinks he could have prevented this if he'd tried.

"You can't stop other people from being self-destructive, you know. Hoynes has no one but himself to blame."

"Which I'm sure will be a real consolation to us all when we can't get a bill through Congress because the administration's been weakened by a sex scandal and a confirmation fight."

"Sex scandal" is not my favorite phrase. It hits too close to home these days. So I concentrate on the other part of Josh's statement instead. "Is there going to be a fight over the confirmation?"

"Of course there's going to be a fight," he says, as he gets out of bed and retrieves his boxers from the floor. "It doesn't matter who we nominate. We kicked Ritchie's ass, we left their party without a leader, and it's payback time." He slips his boxers back on and begins pacing around my bedroom. "And it's not just the Republicans. We lost our presumptive nominee. Every Democrat who's ever had one moment of looking at the Oval Office and thinking, 'Hey, I can do better than that guy,' has a poll in the field by now. They don't want us to have a strong VP any more than the Republicans do." He stops pacing, lets out a sigh, and sits back down on the edge of the bed. Not next to me, but close enough to touch.

I run my hand along his arm, hoping to give him some sense of comfort; but he draws back from the contact. That isn't normal for Josh at all. He's an extremely tactile person, even in the office. Now here he is, avoiding any contact. Thirty minutes ago, he was making love to me, and now he can't bring himself to touch me.

There's no point doing something as direct as asking him what's wrong. He'll deny that he's having any kind of personal qualms about all this. Then he'll get angry with me for suspecting that he's troubled, and he'll push himself even farther away. The only thing I can do is remind him that I, for one, have faith in him even when he doesn't have faith in himself.

"You'll work it out," I assure him. "You'll find the right candidate."

"Why do you do that?" he asks. "You always do this. 'You worry too much, Josh. You'll find the answer. You'll pull off another miracle.' I can't stand when you do that."

There's this tone in his voice -- somewhere between frustrated and angry. I've heard that tone before, but only once or twice has it been directed at me. For a second, I'm unsure of what I did wrong or how I should react. "You can't stand that I believe in you?" I finally ask him, and I'm sure my tone of voice gives all my confusion away. "Since when?"

He looks at me and kind of winces, as though he can feel just how much his words stung. "Since…" For just a moment, he looks as though he's going to pull me into his arms. But then he stands up and starts pacing around the room again. "Since always. Sometimes I think you expect too much of me. Like I'm your knight in shining armor or something."

Despite everything, I have to smile at that. Because, well, yes. But also no.

"Believe me, Josh," I say, "I think of you as many things, but a knight in shining armor is not one of them." Judging from the skeptical look he's giving me, he doesn't believe a word I'm saying. "Okay," I admit as I get out of bed and slip on the white shirt Josh discarded on my bedroom chair. "Maybe for a week or two in the beginning," I add as I fasten the top button, "but not after that. I've worked too close to you for too long to have any illusions."

He's still giving me that look, but at least he's stopped pacing and he doesn't pull away when I run my hand over his arm again. "If I expect a lot from you," I say, "it's because I know how good you are at this. So if it's possible to find the right candidate, you'll do it."

"It's just that I don't want to disappoint you," he says. I run one hand around his neck while the other strokes his back, feeling all the tension in his muscles.

"Or the president," I add. "Or Leo. Or anyone else you care about. Look at yourself. You're twisted up in knots because you can't fix things for John Hoynes, a man who's clearly in the wrong in this case."

Josh gives a quick, bitter laugh. "I'm hardly in a position to condemn a man for having an affair."

Even though, in typical fashion, Josh has managed to place the blame squarely on his own shoulders, I flinch at his implication. This time I'm the one who distances myself, letting go of him and taking a few steps back. "It's not the same thing," I protest, my voice shaking a little. "You're not married."

"And Helen Baldwin didn't work for Hoynes. It kind of evens out."

Josh does this occasionally. He gets so wrapped up in his own guilt and pain that he forgets how what he's saying might sound to me. In some twisted way, it's almost a compliment. He's spent too many years playing Beltway poker to drop his guard around other people. He's created this public persona for himself -- the invincible, ruthless political operative -- and he goes to elaborate lengths to make sure no one senses his weaknesses. Only a handful of people ever glimpse how vulnerable Josh can be, and I'm the only one he shares this part of himself with intentionally.

Which leaves me feeling divided. On the one hand, I want to comfort and reassure him, tell him he's a much better man than he gives himself credit for. On the other hand, I'd like nothing more than to point out that by castigating himself, Josh is implying some unflattering things about me.

What keeps me from lashing out at him, ultimately, is the self-loathing in his voice, the defeated slump of his shoulders, the way he can't look me in the eye. He doesn't need me adding to his burden, as tempting as that is for a moment. He needs to have the flaws in his reasoning pointed out, but in a gentle fashion. Because no matter how much I want to throw my arms around Josh and assure him that what we have cannot be compared to some cheap, adulterous affair, there are things Josh and I simply do not say. We have never, in four months, referred to ourselves as a couple. We have never talked about whether this new aspect of our relationship is permanent. We have only used the word "love" on one occasion -- the first night we spent together. Somehow it is understood between us that we will not use that word lightly. We've said it to other people and thought we meant it. We've both heard it from previous lovers who turned out to be insincere. We're both more cautious now, and we save that word for when it will have the most impact.

While it might be argued that this is one of those times, Josh doesn't need to be told he's lovable as much as he needs evidence that he's a decent man -- a conclusion he must be led to gradually.

I close the distance between us again and touch his cheek. "Helen Baldwin sold her story for a six-figure book deal," I remind him. "I don't think anyone's going to give me that kind of money."

Josh shuts his eyes as though suddenly stricken by the realization that he did, in a roundabout fashion, compare me to a woman who sold out her lover. "God, Donna, I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

I interrupt before he can launch into another round of self-recrimination. "I'm serious, Josh. Five figures if I'm lucky. But if you think I'd get more, you're seriously overestimating your celebrity."

For a second, I think I see the smallest hint of a grin, but then Josh falls back into his funk. "I'm just saying that I can't feel morally superior is all."

"You are morally superior to John Hoynes," I tell him as I cup his face with my hand. His cheeks have the coarse texture of a man who's been separated from his razor for too many hours. "I'm not saying that Hoynes is evil. I'm saying he did something you'd never even consider. He gave away classified information to his lover. You would never do that."

Finally, Josh smiles at me, even if his smile has a certain rueful quality. "See?" he says. "There you go. The knight in shining armor thing. How do you know what I'd do?"

He's making this almost too easy. I stare at him for a moment with what I know he considers my sexiest smile. As I press my body against his, I become just aware of how thin that shirt I'm wearing is. I can feel his flesh against my stomach, the thinnest layer of cotton between us. Winding one hand around the curls at the back of his neck, I whisper, "You're the Deputy Chief of Staff. You know classified stuff. Why don't you share of that with me?"

He's so close to me now that, when he laughs, his breath tickles a sensitive spot behind my ear. "Are we doing a little role playing here, Mata Hari?" he asks.

"I am pointing out a basic fact. You know stuff I don't." I kiss the base of his throat.

"I used to. Then you started doing that, and I forgot everything else," he says, as his arms go around my waist.

I try not to be distracted by the way his thumbs stroke my skin. "One thing, Josh," I tell him. "Tell me one thing I'm not supposed to know. One piece of classified information." I brush my leg against his to emphasize my point. "I'll make it worth your while."

"And exactly how will you do that?"

"Any way you want me to." I don't say anything else for a moment, giving him time to consider the implications of what I've just said. When I see his eyes widen with surprise and desire, I tap his forehead playfully. "Somewhere in that brain of yours I'm betting there's at least one fantasy you've never gotten around to telling me." I slip out of his arms and stand just out of his reach. "What is it, Josh? Something you thought was too kinky for my taste?" Interesting how much he's blushing at the moment. "Hmmm…just who's been putting whom on a pedestal here, I wonder?" He blushes some more, but he can't seem to take his eyes off me. "I'll make that fantasy come true, Josh, whatever it is. You name it; I'll do it. Just share one piece of classified information with me." I unbutton the shirt, and Josh stands transfixed as it slides to the ground.

It takes him at least thirty seconds to recover. "You want to be careful about the kind of deal you offer a politician," he warns as he moves closer to me. There's a certain wolfish quality in his voice that makes me shiver.

"So you're going to tell me?" I ask.

"About my fantasies?"

"No," I tell him, shaking my head slightly. "About the stuff I don't have clearance on."

He looks away for a moment. When he turns back to me, the playful, erotic quality has vanished. "I can't," he says seriously.

"All this can be yours," I repeat, indicating my naked body.

"I thought it already was," Josh says softly.

I grin because he's right. And because he's proved my point. "Fantasies, Josh," I remind him.

"Reality, Donna. Things are classified for a reason."

Nudity may be a useful seduction technique, but I've made my point and I'm getting cold. I climb back into bed and pull up the covers. "But you do know something big," I say. "I've seen how worried you and Toby and CJ all are. There's more going on than Hoynes' resignation, isn't there?"

Josh sits down beside me. "I can't talk about that."

Those worry lines are back around his eyes again, and the pain is all too evident in his somber tone. He knows, I hope, that if he could tell me all the things that trouble him, I'd listen and give him all the support I can. As it is, all I can do is throw my arms around him and hold him as tight as I can manage.

"And that, my friend, is what makes you a better man than John Hoynes," I whisper.

Josh reaches out and gently runs his hand over my hair, expressing all that love we don't talk about. "Don't think I'm not tempted," he says.

"That's the point. Everybody's tempted. Not everyone gives in." I kiss his forehead. "Now can we please get some sleep?"

Josh doesn't protest as I pull him down on to the pillow next to me. His arms wind more tightly around me. After a few minutes, his tone low and raspy, he asks, "We can't talk more about my fantasies?" His thumb strokes my ribcage and I shiver a little, not because of the cold. "'Cause you might enjoy them."

Looking up at him, I grin. "Get a vice president confirmed, and maybe we'll talk."

He falls asleep soon after that, but it I stay awake for quite a while. Because I can't forget the look on his face when I asked about classified material. Something else is bothering him; something even more serious than Hoynes' resignation.

And what will happen if his depression over that is more than I can handle?

THE END

10.18.03


	2. Solace

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What did the Deputy Chief of Staff know and when did he know it? Is that what you're asking me?"_ Sequel to my earlier story _Divided._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers: Let's just say everything through _The Dogs of War._  
>  Disclaimer: As far as I'm concerned, they still belong to Aaron.  
> Thanks: Nikki poured through countless emails about Donna's frame of mind and several aborted drafts; she gave fabulous advice and kept me writing when I wanted to give up. Meg volunteered to help on a Saturday night when Donna stopped talking to me; I followed her wise counsel and suddenly everything made sense.

You'd think, looking at Josh, that today is just another day at the office. As usual, he's sitting at his desk, jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, files scattered around in a pattern that only makes sense to him. He's completely focused on whatever crisis he's dealing with at the moment -- finding a confirmable vice presidential candidate, I think. To me, it's a familiar, even comforting, picture.

I stand in the doorway for a moment, savoring how very normal this all looks. Because today has been anything but a normal day in the West Wing. And it just got worse.

"Josh?"

Despite his previous concentration, he looks up the instant I call his name. "Have they found her?" The tremor in his voice is so slight I doubt anyone else would notice it, but I raise my eyebrow anyway. He nods in reply and takes a deep, calming breath.

"There's no news about Zoey," I tell him, as I step into the office and close the door. "But Danny just posted this, and I knew you'd want to see it."

He barely glances at the headline before setting the story aside. "Yeah, thanks." He nods toward another stack of papers. "I'm going to need any statements you can find on these guys' positions--"

"Is it true?" All day long, we've been speaking in hushed tones, and my normal tone of voice suddenly sounds strident. "What Danny wrote here -- did it really happen?"

"We're not commenting," Josh replies. "It's important you tell the staff that. Absolutely no comments to the press. Don't even begin to speculate about whether Zoey…" He shuts his eyes for a second and rubs his palm over his forehead, as though he's trying to erase the images his brain is conjuring. "Just make sure everyone knows that, okay?"

Josh is neither surprised nor outraged by Danny's story, and that stuns me as much as a physical blow would. E ven though I try to hide my emotions, the "okay" I utter sounds more like a gasp than a reply.

Everything Danny wrote is true. First rule of dealing with the press: Don't comment and dig yourself in a deeper hole if the accusations are true. Second rule of dealing with the press? Issue denials -- lots of loud, emphatic denials -- if the allegations are false.

We're not issuing denials.

It's true.

President Bartlet ordered a man's death.

My president -- the man whose integrity impressed me so much that I drove from Wisconsin to New Hampshire to campaign for him -- ordered the assassination of another human being. From everything I've read, Abdul Shareef was a terrible, dangerous man. The world is probably better off without him.

But still. This isn't something I would ever have believed President Bartlet capable of.

President Bartlet issued an order, and a man was killed. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel about that. 

*** 

Several hours later, as we leave the White House for the first time since Zoey disappeared, I still don't know what to think. I have no clue how to react to Josh; I have no idea how everything that's happened since Saturday night affects the two of us. As we make our way through the crowd that has gathered to stand vigil for Zoey, I realize that Josh and I have not been much comfort to one another today. These strangers, with their candles and their prayers, provide us with more solace than we've given one another.

Maybe there's some magic formula for handling relationships properly, and I just haven't found it yet. Lord knows the tactics I'm using just haven't been working.

I've been carefully dividing up my role in Josh's life: Part of the time, I'm his lover; most of the time, I'm his assistant. As his assistant, I know there are absolutely things Josh cannot talk to me about. No questions about the connection between Zoey's kidnapping and the Shareef assassination. No questions about the Shareef assassination ever.

But as his lover, I need to ask those questions. I need comfort. I need to know that the kind, wise, decent man I worked to elect did not set these events in motion by ordering a murder. Come to think of it, as an assistant, I need to know that too.

Still, there is no way to address those questions openly. Especially now, after watching these strangers bring their tokens and their prayers for Zoey, anything we could say seems meaningless. They make me feel petty, these people I don't know. Zoey's disappearance, the Shareef assassination, the bombing in Turkey -- all these events may have dramatic, horrific consequences for them; yet no one is protesting. They have simply gathered here to wish Zoey and her parents well.

I want to point out how remarkable that is. I want Josh to realize that not one of these people is focused on whether we've selected a new vice president or whether Glen Allen Walken seems more presidential than we'd expected. One look at Josh's face, however, and I know that this is not the time to bring up the extraordinary quality of this vigil. He looks even more haggard than before. All his attention is focused on a photo someone has clipped from an old copy of _Newsweek_ and set next to some flowers. The photo shows a teenaged Zoey on the night her father was first nominated for the presidency. I can guess what Josh is thinking as he stares at it. Like me, he is wondering how we went from the hope and idealism we all had that night to this mixture of horror and disillusionment we're feeling now.

I want nothing as much as I want to hold him and promise that everything will be all right. But we're in public, and I'm not sure I believe it myself, anyway.

So we go back to Josh's place in silence. I hope that by the time we get there, I'll have found a way to comfort him.

And that he'll understand that I need comforting too.

*** 

Most nights, Josh and I take our time getting undressed. Our sexual relationship is still new enough that the most mundane acts have an erotic effect on us. I usually find myself becoming aroused simply watching Josh unbutton his shirt. That first glimpse of bare skin usually affects me to the point where I have to stop him so I can kiss the base of his throat. Some days Josh demonstrates his own fascination with my belly button as I'm undressing. If I've worn long sleeves, he's obsessed with my wrists.

Tonight, however, neither of us pays much attention to the person on the other side of the bed. Exhaustion is competing with grief and fear and all the other emotions we've been fighting since Zoey disappeared. Josh has stripped down to his boxers and gotten under the covers by the time I've found the oversized Mets t-shirt I like to sleep in and turned out the lights.

We're uncharacteristically silent. Words, after the candlelight vigil we saw, seem inadequate and somehow inappropriate. What we saw and felt there -- the quiet, reverent prayers for Zoey's safety -- is something we want to hold on to. We can't assure each other that Zoey will come home safely, that President Bartlet will be back in the Oval Office tomorrow, that our world will ever be normal again.

We do communicate, however. I run my hand down Josh's back, feeling his knotted muscles relaxing slightly. He turns around and cups my cheek with his palm. I kiss his forehead; he pulls me tighter into his arms. We don't make love; we simply offer each other these small moments of solace until we fall asleep in one another's arms. 

* * * 

Ninety minutes later, I'm awakened by the sound of running water.

I get up and crack open the bathroom door. Josh, as I suspected, is in the shower. I remember this behavior from the last weeks of his confinement after the shooting. He maintained then that his inability to get a full night's sleep was due to having spent far too much of his summer confined to a hospital bed. I pretended to believe him, but I wondered whether the purpose of those late-night showers was really to cleanse his mind of its fears. Four years ago, I couldn't walk into the bathroom and put that question to him directly. I still can't. Josh does not respond well to direct questions about his frame of mind.

What I do instead is open the door wider and call his name.

A few seconds pass, during which I imagine him debating what to do next. If he pretends he hasn't heard me, will I go away? If he acknowledges my presence, will I start prying into things he isn't ready to discuss? Finally, he turns the water off and pulls the shower curtain back enough so that I can see his face. His hair is soaking wet and plastered to his head. His eyes have that sunken, hollow quality that I associate with too little sleep and too much worry.

"Is there any news?" he asks, and I can hear the apprehension in his voice.

"No," I answer. "I just woke up when I heard you in here." Having successfully lobbed the ball back to his side of the court, I wait for his reply.

"I thought I'd get dressed and go back to the office. In case Leo needs me."

"Leo clearly told you to go home and get some rest."

Josh pulls back the shower curtain and steps out of the tub, grabbing a towel and knotting it tightly around his waist.

"You think Leo's resting right now?" he asks me. "You think the President…" His voice trails off, and he looks away from me. But I know why he can't bring himself to complete that thought. He can't think about what the President is doing right now because once he starts thinking about that, he'll start thinking about other things. He'll start thinking about what might be happening to Zoey right now, and that is the one thing none of us has been able to deal with. We've talked about amendments and Republicans and political ramifications, but we've tried our best to stay away from the fact that someone we care about is suffering.

When he looks back at me, I can see the pain he's tried to hide all these hours etched into every line on his face. It's there in the way his shoulders, still damp from the shower, sag from trying to hold the world together for Leo and the President through all this. I'd do anything to make that pain vanish.

I know it's wrong of me to feel this way, but how can his attention be so focused on the job that he can't see my own pain? I don't have the kind of responsibility he does, but I'm still involved in this. I spent dozens of hours on a campaign bus five years ago, getting to know Zoey better than I know my own sister. Back then, Zoey was a bright, funny teenager who was half in love with Josh; she and I bonded over our mutual dislike of Mandy Hampton. She watched me fall apart in the hospital when Josh got out of surgery; she helped Margaret and me pick out burial clothes for Mrs. Landingham.

She's not some abstraction -- "the First Daughter." She's someone I care about, and I'm scared that she may die. That she may already be dead. And that somehow, by helping elect Jed Bartlet, we may all have been implicated in her death.

So, as selfish as it is of me, I want Josh to comfort me. I am suddenly so weary of being the caretaker in this relationship. I know that's wrong; I'm picking the absolute worst time to fixate on this, but there it is.

If Josh is at all aware of how I feel, he doesn't show it. He simply walks past me into the bedroom and starts looking for his clothes. I follow behind him, just like at work. Because no matter how much I'm hurting, this is the easy role -- nurturer, caretaker, faithful assistant. I know my lines here. It's still easier being his assistant than being his lover.

"What do you think you can do at this hour?" I ask as I rummage through his dresser, looking for his t-shirts. I toss one at him, then turn back to find a clean pair of boxers. "It's not like Congress is open for business."

"You think there's a Democrat in this town who's not hoping I'll call?"

Josh is falling back on the familiar roles tonight too. When he turns to face me, his political mask is back in place. Under any other circumstances, I'd be amused (not to mention aroused) at the sight of him. All he's wearing is an old black t-shirt and a towel; his hair is still damp from the shower; those dark circles around his eyes are the result of worry and fatigue. But, by God, he's determined to bend Congress to his will, and you can tell that from the way he's thrown his shoulders back and from the way he's narrowed his eyes. If the Acting President of the United States himself walked in this room right now, Josh would face him down without the least embarrassment.

I know it's easier for Josh this way. It's easier when he pretends that all he has to do is concentrate on a political problem, but I can't let it go. I dig around in his closet, looking for his slacks while he puts on the boxers I tossed him, and I try to bring the conversation back around to Zoey. "Maybe tonight people are waiting for another kind of call," I point out.

I sit down and watch as he finishes dressing. "I need to get another thirty names off the list before I show it to Leo," he says finally. I'm disappointed, though not surprised, that we're talking about politics. "I should go back to the office."

"The files are in your backpack. We can at least stay here and work."

He shakes his head. "You go back to sleep."

Not that long ago, I was bragging about how I "get" Josh. Now I'm bewildered. Is he telling me to rest because he's concerned about my welfare, or does he just need time alone? I can't figure him out.

What I do know is that I don't want to be alone. So I make one final, half-hearted attempt to tell him how I feel. "Josh," I begin.

He's halfway out the door when he waves a hand dismissively in my direction and deliberately misinterprets what I'm about to say. "You don't need to come with me. Just get some rest."

With that, he leaves me sitting in the dark, brooding about covert assassinations and Zoey's fate.

* * * 

I can't sleep.

I've tried for the last hour, but it's no use. Too many disturbing questions keep running through my head. Too many horrifying images haunt me every time I close my eyes.

I'm surprised to find Josh in the living room, reading more files about the vice presidential candidates. In deference to my announcement that I wanted to sleep, he's kept the television off and the lights down.

"You're going to ruin your eyes."

Josh cranes his neck around so that he can see me standing behind the sofa. My hair is undoubtedly a mess from the way I was tossing and turning in his bed, and the t-shirt I'm wearing is about three sizes too big. The sight must amuse him; a hint of a smile plays around the corners of his mouth.

"I thought you were sleeping," he says.

"I thought you were at the office," I reply, moving to take a seat next to him on the sofa.

"I already had the files here. I figured I might as well stay." He shrugs. "Besides, their coffee's probably cold."

In other words, he thought he'd stay and keep watch while I slept. He has this compulsive need to watch over the people he loves; now that someone he cares about is missing, his protective streak has taken on an almost superstitious quality.

I lean back and close my eyes. "You can turn the TV on. We should see if there's any news about Zoey."

"They'll page me if there is." Translation: He doesn't want to turn on the television and see more old footage of Zoey or listen to some news anchor speculate about what may be happening to her. Opening my eyes, I try to give him a reassuring smile, but I doubt I'm very convincing. I lean into him, hoping my presence at least will ease the pain I know he's feeling.

A copy of the _Post_ is lying on the coffee table, partially obscured by Josh's coffee cup. I can only read part of the headline -- "Shareef assassination." I can feel Josh's body tense as he realizes what I'm looking at.

"Will there be another set of hearings?" I ask, trying to keep the dread out of my voice. Another round of preparing documents and giving testimony. Lord knows I am not up for that, especially considering what happened last time.

"I don't know," Josh says. He sounds weary; clearly, he's been going over all the possibilities far longer than I've known about this. Just as clearly, he hasn't come up with an answer, and it frustrates him. "I suppose it will depend on…" He pauses, trying to find a way not to mention Zoey's name. He's been doing that, I've noticed. He's tried not to say her name if he could help it. Even at the vigil, he couldn't say it. I think he fears that if he uses her name, somehow he'll jinx her. If he gives voice to the fact that it's Zoey who is missing, he'll be responsible for our never seeing her again. He takes a breath and starts again. "What happens in the next few days will determine the public's mood. If President Bartlet loses the public's sympathy, then, yes, Congress might decide to take action against him."

"Aren't there…" I don't know how to word my next question. The things I need to know for my own peace of mind aren't necessarily the things I'm allowed to know as a member of the White House staff. It's ironic, because I'm sure couples all over the country have been having variations of this conversation ever since Danny's story broke. I try to be as neutral as possible, phrasing the question the way I might if we were any two other people discussing current events. "Aren't there international complications? Isn't The Hague…"

Josh is up and pacing before I can finish the question. "Christ, Donna, if I don't know what the United States Congress is planning to do about this, I sure as hell can't tell you what they're thinking in the Netherlands."

"I'm just asking--"

He comes to a sudden halt three feet in front of me, his expression accusing. "What did the Deputy Chief of Staff know and when did he know it? Is that what you're asking me?"

"No. Absolutely not." I look him squarely in the eye, trying to relay the fact that I have faith in him.

For a moment, everything's quiet as Josh stares back at me. It's that appraising stare he turns on his political opponents when he wants to figure out their motivation. I assume I pass the examination, because he finally replies, "I didn't know until long after it happened, I can tell you that much."

"I never thought you did," I assure him. "You wouldn't be part of something like that."

"But Leo and the President would?" His tone is sharp and accusing. After all, disloyalty to Leo or President Bartlet is the one thing he can't tolerate.

"I didn't say--"

"You didn't have to." He waves a hand in my direction. "You just sit there with the wide-eyed farm girl looks, like you're horrified that we could have done such a thing."

"I am horrified," I insist. I stand up, trying to emphasize my point. "It's murder. You can justify it any way you want, but it's still killing another human being."

"Abdul Shareef barely qualified as human."

"I don't think you and I are allowed to make that judgment."

"Why?" Josh starts pacing again, each step taking him that much farther from me. "Do you think that he harbored warm, fuzzy feelings for any of us? I've heard you and CJ talk about the Qumari government enough to know that you understand what happens to women over there."

"Yes." I nod. "It's awful, and it has to be stopped. But can that really justify--"

"And believe me when I tell you that Abdul Shareef wouldn't have been too fond of Toby or me."

"Point taken. But still--"

"This is a man who wanted to blow up the Golden Gate Bridge, Donna. If that's not a clear and present danger to the American people, what is? Doesn't the President have a responsibility to protect us from that?"

"Yes, but aren't there other ways to do that? If we had all this evidence against Shareef, why didn't we make that public? Why didn't we send him to The Hague? Why didn't we do something besides this?"

Josh shrugs, as though the answer is so obvious that he shouldn't have to say it out loud. Yet from the haunted look in his eyes, I'm not sure whether even he believes his answer. "Because this was the most effective way of dealing with the kind of threat Abdul Shareef presented."

"Tell that to Zoey."

He doesn't say anything for a minute, and I can see his emotions reflected so clearly on his face. I'm one of the few people he would be this unguarded with, and I know I should take that as a compliment. But I have my own doubts and fears tonight, and I need someone to assure me that the world makes sense and that Zoey will be all right. Josh's blind loyalty to Leo and the President isn't providing me with any of that.

"We still don't know for sure that the two events are related," he says.

That remark is so far from what I needed to hear that I have to laugh. "If they're not related, it's one hell of a coincidence."

"It had to be done, Donna." He sounds as if he's trying to convince himself as much as he's trying to win my agreement, and I find myself falling back into the role of his comforter. I move over to where he's standing and put my arm around him.

"I want to agree with you," I reply. "I really do. But killing someone -- that's not what we're supposed to be doing. We're supposed to be better than that."

He pulls away from me and leans against the wall. "Welcome to the real world," he says in a bitter tone of voice. "Do you think Jed Bartlet's the only president with the blood of a foreign leader on his hands? Come on, Donna. You know better."

"I thought we were different," I say, blinking rapidly so Josh won't see the tears welling up in my eyes. "I thought President Bartlet was different. That's why I voted for him."

The smallest hint of a smile plays around the corners of Josh's mouth. "Technically, you voted for Ritchie."

I'm not in the mood to be amused because he thinks I'm cute when I'm ditzy. "I might have voted for Ritchie intentionally if I'd known about the Shareef assassination."

If the stunned look on his face is anything to go by, I've succeeded in shocking Josh. "You don't mean that," he insists.

"Probably not," I admit. "But my point is that this isn't something I thought President Bartlet was capable of. This isn't the man I thought I knew. It scares me."

It's the first time since Zoey disappeared that either of us has admitted to being frightened. I'm hoping Josh will take this as an opportunity to confess his own fears to me. Hell, he can play the manly man and simply try to comfort me. For once, I won't tell him what an idiot he looks like when he tries to be macho. He doesn't do any of that, however. He stays on his side of the room and answers me with a simple "It had to be done."

"Why?" I ask. "Is the world safer now? Are you honestly going to stand there and tell me there are no terrorists left in Qumar? Do you believe that killing one man solved all our problems?"

"Maybe not solved, but--"

I hold up my hand to stop him from launching into another defense of the President.

"I want to believe that the President did the right thing, Josh. But you've had longer to process this than I have. I just need some time to work through it all."

Josh nods, and we stand on our opposite sides of the room, looking everywhere but at each other. It gradually occurs to me that there is no comfort for either one of us here. Just as Josh will never admit that Leo and the President could be wrong, he won't admit that he's afraid that this one bad decision could cost Zoey her life. As long as he can't give in to his own pain, he can't help me through mine. It's almost a relief when Josh breaks the silence to announce that he's going back to the White House. Going back to work is absolutely the best thing he can do right now. If he's in the West Wing, even a West Wing that's been invaded by Republicans, he'll have a sense that he's accomplishing something. That's as much comfort as Josh can find tonight, I suppose. Certainly it's more comfort than I can give him.

After he leaves, I spend an hour or so watching the news. Amid the speculation about who kidnapped Zoey, whether she's still alive and what we will do if she's dead, there's a brief report about the vigil. Even the anchors are impressed by what's happening outside the White House. The footage of people gathering together, lighting candles and leaving letters and flowers for Zoey, reminds me of the one moment tonight when I felt at peace. Just as Josh needs to be in the White House, I realize, I need to be standing with the people outside the gates. Maybe they can give me the solace I couldn't find with Josh.

THE END

11.29.03


End file.
